" 'Animum fortuna sequatur'," she read. She shot a sidelong glance at Cavendish, who was waiting to see if she could translate it. "I can read it, Captain," she said. "It means 'Let fortune follow courage.' Your motto?"
"Aye, madam," he said. "But one thing. Fortuna means not fortune, but good fortune, good luck—'let good luck follow courage'!"
"If you'd given me a minute more, I would have remembered,"' she said.
Cavendish laughed.
"Do you believe it?" she asked, seriously. "I mean, the motto?"
"It's in the nature of a toast," he said. "But I warrant I do."
David said, "Then you are both of simple minds."
"No!" said Catherine. "For we mean moral courage as well as physical."
"Can you differentiate between the two?" David asked. "For where there is one, there is the other, in proportion."
At this, Cavendish laughed aloud. "He's sharper than you thought, señora," he said.
Catherine looked from one to the other. "At least you didn't steal the goblets," she said.
"Trust a wench to change the subject," David said. "Are you on your way to Spain, señora?"
"Yes," she said. "First to Acapulco, then to Vera Cruz, and thence to Spain. And you are right about the courage. I hadn't thought it through."
"Well, don't feel badly. Tom hasn't either. Although I must say for him he doesn't need to. He has certain tenets that he holds to and from which he never varies." He drank off all his wine. "Whereas, often I find little justification for my actions."
"I don't quite understand you," Catherine said, aware once more of Cavendish.
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"Why not?" asked David.
Cavendish, who was listening, again laughed aloud.
Catherine pouted, and David chuckled. "Lord, you're sweet," he said, "to put up with both of us. Have you finished, señora? If you have, we'll go topside and I'll explain all."
"The señora wants some preserves and more wine," Cavendish said.
Catherine said, in a very restrained but eager manner, "I would like some preserves." Cavendish watched her as she ate.
"Marvelous," she said, licking the taste of sugar off her red mouth. She was wearing white again, white satin brocade, with a collar of handmade lace. Around her throat was a slender gold chain and locket. She wore a plain gold ring. The other ladies, whose laughter and chatter filled the cabin, wore jewels of value. Cavendish wondered if Catherine de Montoro was clever enough not to wear jewels; he decided she probably was, and it made him smile inwardly.
"Your husband left you nothing, señora?" he asked, bluntly.
"Very little," she said, looking straight at him. "I paid my passage to Acapulco with a family portrait of Captain Flores' wife and children."
"Checkmate, señora," he said, and he smiled. His fingers were over her hand, and he tightened his grip for a moment; slowly the strong fingers released hers. Catherine turned to David.
"I'd like to walk the deck now," she said. "If you wish."
David pushed back his chair instantly and stood up. "If you'll pardon us, sir," he said. He held out his arm to Catherine and shi took it; they left the cabin without a backward glance.
On deck, the running lights gleamed. The musicians were there; soon they would play for dancing. David led Catherine over to the rail, aft, under the shadow of Cavendish's high deck. The moon was up. Its light laid a path across the shimmering water. Near, the surf pounded against the beaches; on those beaches a fire burned brightly; around it men were gathered. And a ghostly line of tents stretched under the first pine trees.
"The tide is full," David said.
"I shall live there," Catherine said. "In a tent."
"You shall," David said.
They were silent. "Why is it always so beautiful?" Catherine asked.
David said, "I do my best thinking at night, at sea. Ask any seaman. Ask yourself, for that matter."
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"I suppose I dream instead," she said. "But what did you mean when you said that you sometimes found small justification for your actions?"
He said instantly, "You know. Now tonight, I asked you to come here with me, not only because I wished to talk with you—" he swung around to face her— "believe me, señora, I do want to be with you! But I also wanted to bedevil my brother."
Catherine said, "So did I."
David laughed. "I knew that, but I didn't expect you to say so now. However, señora, you are a woman, and it is to be expected that you should want to have Tom. But—to me, it should matter little whether I annoy him or not."
"Why did you say that?"
David understood that she was thinking only of what he had said about her wanting Tom. "Because most women do, and I should think, you, especially. Give him no quarter, señora. He gives none, nor does he ask it."
"I was thinking of what you said about yourself," she said.
"You were not, but I'll explain. A year and a half at sea have given me time to grow and think. For twelve years previous to that, I was dependent on my brother. I still am. I obey orders. But, señora, I don't want to. Why?"
"Because you resent him?" Catherine asked, tentatively.
"Partly," he said, "but also because I cannot believe nor understand the things he does." He paused. "Have you ever seen a man tortured?"
"No," said Catherine.
"I have," he said, "and I still cannot condone—not Tom's action —my standing supinely aside and watching what I believe is wrong. Wrong? More than that."
"But why?" she said. "Why did he have a man tortured?"
David said, "Señora, you are interested in one thing, and that is, one man. He did it because he had to find out if the Spaniard in question carried letters about us. If he carried the letters, then we were safe. If he didn't, Tom had to intercept the ship which did carry the news of us to Acapulco. Tom tried fright, first. He pretended he was going to hang the Spaniard; the hatch was rigged, and the officer still didn't confess. So Tom used a thumbscrew. The Spaniard confessed then that he'd thrown the letters overboard when we took his bark. You see, Tom's action was justified, from
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his point of view. From mine, it was not. Not even though the safety of the crew was at stake. Here comes Tom."
Cavendish was walking across the deck toward them, purposefully. With him were de Ersola and a Spanish lady of quality whose name was Arabella de Madariaga. She wore a mantilla over her black &air.
David, close to Arabella, looked at her critically. De Ersola was telling Cavendish an incident of their voyage and Cavendish, leaning back against the rail, was silently appraising Arabella too.
Catherine looked angry. David said, in her ear, "But, señora, we are only men."
Catherine turned her head away from him. In the running lights her hair gleamed red. De Ersola finished his tale, and David said to Cavendish, "The señora and I talked of various things. I think she would like to see those leather paintings of yours."
"I would, Captain," said Catherine, ignoring Arabella, but bestowing a smile on de Ersola. De Ersola looked weary and drawn; Catherine knew he had gone without sleep for thirty-six hours, because he had been on the beaches directing the men; he was taking Captain Flores' place tonight, while Flores sat alone in his cabin. Cavendish was saying that he would be pleased to show her the paintings, and Catherine laid her hand on de Ersola's arm for a minute.
"Excuse us, Tomas," she said.
"I'll wait here for you," he said. "We'll dance."
She nodded, smiling, and she walked along between Cavendish and David, feeling satisfied that she had outdone Arabella, for the moment, at least. And she wanted to see the cabin where Cavendish spent so many of his hours.
As she had expected, Cavendish's cabin was scrupulously neat. The table top had a half-drawn chart affixed to it; the hammock was unslung, and the ship's clock ticked; sand tumbled steadily in the hourglass. David opened the small door that led to Cavendish's storeroom.